


just friends.

by brosdrake



Series: friends, benefits, and lots of feelings [1]
Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Drunk calls, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Sex, Just Friends, Pining, and elena is a total mom rn, and reader is uwu for sam, but she's in uwu denial, reader is a hardass that's afraid of love, sam is uwu for reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-11-13 20:08:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18038102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brosdrake/pseuds/brosdrake
Summary: you didn't want to catch feelings — it wasn't part of the agreement. the agreement was to be friends with benefits, do things friends do, and crack open a beer every few days.absolutely nowhere in that agreement said to fall in love.





	1. almost more than most things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trying my hand at writing some good ol reader uncharted fic!!! i love sam drake so so much so i thought it'd be great to put this idea in my head that will not let me sleep. excited for this! here is part one!

You didn't want to catch feelings — it wasn't part of the agreement. The agreement was to be friends with benefits, do things friends do, and crack open a beer every few days.

Absolutely nowhere in that agreement said to fall in love.

Falling in love meant the possibility of getting your heart damaged, and you didn’t want to risk that. It wasn’t that you were hard-faced or closed up, it’s just so happened that the thought of _love_ made you scared. There’s baggage from the past that is hoisted on your back, and it’s heavy enough to carry. You didn’t want to make the burden heavier. It was too much.

Sam knew this, and respected your decisions for your emotional wellbeing. But you knew that he couldn’t just brush off the attraction you both had for each other; the sexual tension between you two was so thick. Thus, he came up with a proposition: friends with benefits. There wouldn’t be other people on the side, but it sure as hell wasn’t a relationship.

The rules were simple: no messing around with other people as long as you two keep this up, feel free to do anything, and do not, absolutely, ever consider falling for each other.

You even said it yourself. “If we’re gonna do this, we have to swear to not fall in love with each other.” A statement so serious, boy scouts are quivering in their tents. “Just, don’t think so deep into it.”

He scoffed, you remember. “Am I that bad?” he chuckled, lighting up a cigarette. He took a drag and smirked. “I’m just joking with you; there’s no need to worry about it, dollface. Fuck buddies only. I got it.”

He was amiable, of course, the way Sam always is.

Then in a blink of an eye, you were two months into whatever you and Sam had, staying at each other’s places for days on end, sleeping with each other as friends with benefits do, watching movies, and not trying to think too hard about what this thing is.

There was this one night, though, that was special. It started off in the kitchen, you were making dinner, and he couldn’t keep his hands off of you as you had faced the stove. His toned arms wrapped around your waist like a corset as he nibbled from your ears to your neck.

“Sam, I’m trying to cook,” you said, trying your best to sound as firm as possible but failing from the giggles he caused. “I’ll burn down my house.”

“You know that’s bullshit,” he teased, his breath hot on your neck. “You’re just ticklish.”

He switches the stove temperature to OFF, turning you around and kissing you full on the lips. Sam’s lips are soft, pressing in with so much passion as his arms snake around your waist tighter and you’re surprised that you haven’t _melted_ yet. Oh god, this man.

Thus it begins; he’s carried you to the bedroom now and you two have forgotten all about dinner. The only thing that’s on your minds is each other, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

After a couple hours of holding onto each other for dear life, him entering in and out of you so vigorously as if you were life itself, letting each other consume the other’s thoughts, you were both sated.

You rest your head on his chest, and you can hear his heartbeat, now slowing down. You’re tracing lazy circles on his skin just before he says, “Sweetheart, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else right now than here.”

He says it gently.

And it isn’t until he kisses your forehead, both breathing heavily from the exhaustion of sex, your head rested on top of his chest, that realized what was there. What always was there.

Shit.

* * *

Elena and Nate’s house is cozy; cozy enough that you sink back further into their couch as you watch Elena’s facial expressions while you tell her of what you and Sam share.

“So you guys have been _sleeping_ with each other for the past two months without anyone knowing?”

She’s shocked, and you wince a little. “I mean, yeah,” you shrug. “We didn’t mean for it to be a secret, Elena. We just sorta went into it, not really thinking too much about it.” You look around the room, anywhere besides her. “Besides, it’s not like I would’ve came by and said _just an FYI, I’m having casual sex with your brother-in-law._ It just… doesn’t sound practical.”

She raises her eyebrows. “But you telling me now makes it practical?”

You struggle with what you want to say next. “Well, no, but I made a mistake, which is why it’s practical now.”

“Enlighten me.”

“I think I’m in love with Sam.”

“Seriously?” She’s smiling now.

You groan, throwing your hands in your face. You’re just glad Nate isn’t home to hear all of this -- God knows what he would’ve said after learning that you have a crush on his brother that you’ve been fucking for two months.

“It’s been _bad_ , Elena,” you tell her. “He and I agreed on not reading too deep into any of this! I was the one who brought that rule up in the first place! Now I can’t even _look_ at him without feeling a certain way.”

She laughs, as you expected her to. “Oh come on, you’ve been having sex with one person for two months straight. On top of that, you two have dinner and watch movies and do whatever almost every other night—how did you not expect this to happen?”

You look down. She’s right. She’s right, and you absolutely hate how she’s right. _Stupid, stupid stupid,_ you tell yourself in your head. _You shouldn’t have even gotten yourself roped up with him in the first place. This whole thing wouldn’t have happened if you told him no._

“Shit,” you sigh, your head falling back into the cushion. You let your eyes close for a little bit. “What do I do?” you ask, and feeling like you’re asking yourself that question more than you are to Elena.

She gives you one of the most sympathetic of looks. “You know you can’t keep hiding it forever.”

You look down, nodding, not knowing what to say. She’s right.

Elena sits up straighter, taking in a breath. “Look, taking _that_ kind of love out of the equation, do you value Sam?”

 _Almost more than most things._ “Yes.”

“Do you respect Sam?”

 _From the ends of the earth_. “Yes.”

“No matter the outcome of whatever it is you guys turn out as, would those two things change?” She raises her eyebrows slightly, already knowing the answer to that question. _Typical Elena_.

“No.”

“I think you know what to do,” she smiles ever so slightly at you. “You just gotta figure out if you’re actually gonna do it.”

* * *

A couple weeks pass by. You start to distance yourself away from Sam, knowing that you have to, even if you don’t want to. It’s not like what he wants is a relationship, let alone one with you. What you both have is safe; for you, you don’t need to worry about getting your heart broken. Like all those times before And as for him, you’re certain he doesn’t have to worry about playing the role of boyfriend.

You both get what you want.

No worrying. No worrying.

Your phone buzzes while you’re at work, and you glance down to see the notification. _Sam Drake_.

**Checking in on you. Everything okay?**

He’s noticing your distance. Your heart flutters for a minute. _He’s checking in_.

 _“You’re not making this easy on me, Sam,”_ you think to yourself.

You type back a reply, trying your best to seem as distant yet polite as possible.

**_Everything is fine. Thanks for checking in_ **

It was a text you thought to be perfect for the situation; answering his questions, not putting in any silly details you think he’d like to hear about. You two have been playing games far enough.

Your phone buzzes once more.

**Miss you dollface**

Another buzz.

**How about I come over tonight?**

You stare down at your phone, not knowing what to respond with. “ _He misses you_ _he misses you he misses you_ ,” the little pixie voice in your head says. You shake your head, mentally apprehending yourself for reading in too much on a single text. Sure, he misses you. There was a routine going on for a little bit.

You go from spending as much time with a person to not. No biggie, right?

No matter what you tell yourself, though, it can’t stop the butterflies in your chest from flapping their wings.

You bite your lip. Who knows what could happen tonight, if you let him swing by. You could end up having sex with him and get you deeper into how you feel, or even worse, tell him. You don’t want to lose him, you don’t want to lose your best friend this way. But then again, if you let him come over, maybe things could turn for the better. You don’t know.

Fuck it.

**_Sure. At 8?_ **

Send.

He texts back almost as quick as you sent your first text.

**You got it, sweetheart.**

You sigh, sinking further into your chair, staring absentmindedly ahead at the walls adorned with your face in framed covers of history magazines places over shelves of worn textbooks. Your eyes trail towards the cover with not only with you in it, but you and the Drakes, with a headline about an expedition that happened back in South America.

You smile at the cover. Sam was so devastatingly handsome. It almost bothers you just how much you admire him. It started off as a sexual attraction, and you call yourself so stupid to believe that it wouldn’t blossom into something more.

Elena’s words ring in your head: _“You can’t keep hiding it forever.”_

She’s right. You can’t keep hiding it forever. It’s either you fess up about how you feel to him, and pray for the best, or you just keep on pushing him away, leaving him to wonder why. The latter made your heart wrench, knowing that he out of all people would deserve an explanation.

But you have to push him away, there was no other choice, right? You’re already in so deep with Sam, and getting deeper is only preparation for how much it will hurt.

Maybe you could push him away without having to leave him wondering. You can end it with him, get yourself out of this agony. Then you can breathe again.

* * *

 

Once you get home, 8 o’clock rolls by faster than you had expected. You were dreading this, honestly, knowing you had to end things with him for your own sake. It feels selfish, doing things for what you believe to be your own good.

You love Sam.

You always have. But the love you were aware of before was the love you had for Elena, for Nate. For Sully. A love that was shared, honed from past grievances and trauma and successes together. A love of friends.

But this was new. This was a love that made your hands shake so slightly, that left you thinking, wanting, wishing for more. It was more than the lust you felt before. There was a safety with him, a devotion that could be there if you and him let it.

If.

Maybe you loved him even before the night you realized you did; maybe it was when he waltzed into your life, an unlit cigarette in between his lips, smooth as ever. When you started loving him doesn’t matter, though—it’s that you do, and it makes you scared. All your life you have done things to protect yourself, and this isn’t an exception.

Your chest constricts once you hear the knock on the door, knowing who’s on the other side of it. _“It’s for your own good_ ,” you think.

Once you open the door, he greets you with a warm smile. His smile is enough to make you melt. “Hey,” he says, hands in his pocket, most likely cold from the December chills. “Can I come in?”

“Sure, of course,” you tell him, stepping out of the reverie of his smile and the way so he can enter. “You must be freezing. It’s so cold out.” You close the door behind you, internally cringing for missing the opportunity to bring up literally anything besides the weather.

He shrugs off his denim jacket and places it on a nearby sofa. “Yeah, but I think I’ve got the solution to warm me up,” he says, grinning.

He draws closer to you and places his large hands on the sides of your face. His hands are cold, but it feels like that’s exactly where they should be. But you’re at your senses, so before he can kiss you, you gently take him by the wrists and set his hands down.

“What’s going on?” he asks, a confused look on his face. He seems so puzzled and you can’t do anything but loathe yourself in this moment and not blame him.

“Sam, we need to talk.” You cross your arms over your chest, licking your lips and bracing yourself for what’s to come.

It’s almost as if he knew, in this very moment, what was going on. Something in his face flickers, he takes a step back, and it suddenly feels that the house got colder. He stills asks, though, and you wonder if it’s out of the hope that it isn’t what he thinks it is. You push the thought aside, trying to suppress everything you’re feeling in this moment.

You remind yourself, _he doesn’t think of you in the same way._

“Well, what’s up?” he asks.

You take in a deep breath. “We can’t keep doing this anymore,” you say, a lump forming in your throat. “You know, this messing around, no-strings-attached stuff.”

Saying the statement alone makes you wish you never, ever, let the words slip out of your mouth and allowed him to hear it. You watch his features, as his face turns into a look of disbelief. “That’s all this is to you, then? No-strings-attached type shit?” He asks you this as if there were something else, something deeper.

Did he just say that? “It’s what we agreed on?” it sounds more like a question coming out of your mouth than an answer. An angry question. “Sam, that’s all it was because you and I said it ourselves! So don’t get pissed at me for calling it as it is.”

The moment you say what you had just said, is the moment you bite your tongue and secretly curse yourself for taking your anger out on him, when you were angry at yourself. Angry for even getting into him this way, angry screwing up one of the best things in your life with your stupid little _feelings_ for him.

But you were telling the truth.

You called it as it is, and so you claim the right to being confused about his unspoken claims that there was something else other than the friends with benefits stuff.

He takes in a breath, placing a hand on the back of his neck. “Don’t act like there wasn’t something else there,” he tells you lowly, glancing down at your lips. “I felt it, and I know you did too. I just know it.”

He takes a step forward, the lines in his forehead defined. _He felt it too._ Your heart races, and what can you do or say in this moment, knowing that the one you don’t want to love, feels something too?

You don’t want to have feelings. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You never understood it when people said that sex changes everything, seeing as you were able to separate sex from everything else. Oh, how you understood wrong. Sex changes _everything_.

You wanted so badly to just sink into him, fall into his arms and stay like that forever, but you know it isn’t practical. “Sam, I can’t,” you say, almost a whisper. It was as if you were telling yourself that more than you were to him. “I can’t.”

“Why can’t you?! We’ve been going at this for weeks! What left do we have to lose if we wanna take it further?” He’s so frustrated, and in that moment, the weight of his hurting hits you harder.  

“I can’t get hurt again,” you choke out. “You know that—and when I realized I caught feelings, I knew I couldn’t do this with you. I can’t… I can’t love you like that.”

You feel so stupid, you feel like a bitch, and God, you feel so _selfish_. Here is this man, trying to hold his ground with you as you try your damndest to burn it to ash.

He places his hands on the sides of your arms, not quite holding you, but close enough. “There’s no reason to be scared, princess,” he tries his best to sound convincing. This is the end as he knows it. “I’m not like everyone else, I’m not like those people who hurt you. I won’t do that, sweetheart, I swear on my life, I won’t.”

The tears begin to roll down your cheeks. Dammit. “Sam, you know what I’m going to say.”

His sigh almost sounds exaggerated. This time, he closes the gap in between you two, enveloping you in his strong arms. The smell of his cologne and cigarettes can’t be ignored, and you inhale his scent while you can.

Just as you’re trying to push him away, he comes closer, and you’re even more confused.

Fuck. Why isn’t this working?

You feel him press his lips against your forehead, and the closing around your arms becomes tighter.

He’s saying goodbye, you realize. A hug that ends just as fast as it starts, the seconds in between coming together and pulling apart feeling so fleeting yet so, so, slow.

He’s holding you no longer, and the house is back to being cold.

“I guess I’ll see you around, then,” he states, grabbing his jacket from the sofa and pulling it on. The defeat in his voice is there. It’s so there.

Before he exits out the door, he takes your hand and it takes all your willpower not to grasp it back. “If you need anything, you know how to get to me,” he says softly. Then he lets go.

You nod. “Bye, Sam.”

He leaves, and you stop crying. But you feel so heavy. So _heavy_.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! let me know what you think :)


	2. like a fairytale

A week.

It’s been about a week since he had last seen her. Her in her apartment, choosing to not kiss him and breaking up with him and—

Well, not breaking up with him. That isn’t possible. If there truly wasn’t anything there, like she said they had talked about, there isn’t really a way for them to break up. Which means, that there shouldn’t be a reason for him to be up at almost midnight, laying back on the couch doing absolutely nothing for what seems to be the third hour, thinking about her.

The static noise from the TV is buzzing but Sam isn’t paying much attention. He figured turning on a baseball game he missed out on, getting his mind off of her, would help a little bit. Yet all it did was worsen—the thoughts grew and became more intense and when he thought he couldn’t think about her more… boy, was he wrong.

The scene played out in his head thousands of times. Her taking his hands off from her face, saying that they can’t do this. Can’t, can’t, can’t. Her denying what was there. Him telling her what he felt. What they felt.

 _It’s bullshit_ , he thinks to himself. It’s all bullshit—he wishes there was something else he could do to get her to realize, realize that it’s okay. He wishes that he could have said more, fought for her a little harder in that moment. He wishes he reassured her more and told her that everything would be alright because _fuck—_ he’s just as scared as she is.

“Jesus,” he sighs, exasperatedly. “What have you done to me?”

* * *

Another week goes by. Then another, then another, until it’s reached an official month since Sam had last interacted with her.

No texts, no calls, no nothing. She’s seemingly done a great job at cutting him out of her life.

Through it all, he worried endlessly. He typed out text messages that he backspaced soon after, came very close to pressing the ‘call’ button on her contact but never did, and drove past the street where her apartment complex was on. Many times.

She took up his thoughts during most of the day, except when he was helping his brother or his sister-in-law with upcoming research projects. But then researching would turn into analyzing, which would turn into looking back onto history, which would turn into him remembering how much his girl loved to analyze and research and—his girl?

Not his girl.

But either way, she’d always come back into his head, full circle.

He’s house-sitting for Nate and Elena this week while they went overseas to Spain, their way of celebrating their marriage anniversary. It’s nicer, seeing as their home is more, well, home-y and bigger compared to his brick-walled apartment in the city, with a heater he has yet to fix and loud, interesting, neighbors.

He’s unsure of what to do with himself after having dinner. He looks around the kitchen, a little dumbfounded. The house is clean, doors are locked, what there to do? Movies haven’t been interesting to him as of late, and every book he tries to crack open just reminds him of _her_ and he doesn’t want to think about her as much as he already does and… well, he’s there now.

 _I spent almost all my nights with you_ , he thinks to himself with a pang in his chest. _I don’t know what to do right now_.

They spent like, what, almost two months together doing what they did? How in the hell did that short of time take up this kind of space in his heart? But then he remembers, that the attraction he began to feel for her was more than skin deep. He thought that he could push that aside, do things casually like he did in the past for their sake, but he was wrong. Like he has been on so many things.

 _Fuck it_ , he thinks again. He reaches over to the counter to grab his phone, unlocking it and finding your contact name. He begins to type.

**_I miss you_ **

Nope. Nope. He deletes the letters. Try again, Sam.

**_I hope everything’s going okay._ **

That’s a little better. He doesn’t press send yet, though. He feels like there’s something else, something more for him to say. He really doesn’t know what to do. What do you do when you miss someone?

**_I hope everything’s going okay. I’m sorry I haven’t reached out in a while. If there’s anything you need, let me know._ **

His thumb hits the send button faster than his mind could process it. Shit. Was it too much? Did she block him? Will she respond? How much time will she take?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Maybe there was a reason why he hasn’t been reaching out to her the past few weeks. He realizes then, with him staring at his phone, standing in his brother’s goddamn kitchen, that _this_ is what they were both truly afraid of.

 _This_. This uncertainty. The worrying. Not knowing if she’s okay, and if she is or isn’t, that he can’t be there for any of it. That he doesn’t get to see her in her joys, her downs. The reminder that she isn’t his, and that there were moments with her that he took for granted. _For fucking granted_.

And he hates this. He hates having to wonder and hurt without choosing to take it into action. She’s worth feeling for. She always has been, but that thought doesn’t make it any easier.

If they did things normally, would this still happen?

If he did the thing where you actually ask the girl out to dinner, go on dates like couples do and do couple things, would this still have happened?

Despite the frustration he feels, the unknowingness of it all, he still feels for her, more so than he ever has. He’s mad, not only at himself for knowing it could all could have been done differently, but for everyone else that hurt her. Every conversation, interaction she had that led up to their last conversation at her place.

He’d protect her from all the things she’s seen, he knows that.

If she let him.

* * *

 

It’s been nearly five hours since he had sent his text. His mind being so awake would probably make up for why he’s up late (he’s been doing that a lot), laying in bed in the guest bedroom at his brother’s place.

Midnight now, and still no word back.

He figured. He shouldn’t have said anything. He didn’t know all what she wanted. He can’t. But, he’s damn sure that he figured out what she didn’t want. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why did he even bother?

“She hates me,” he murmurs to himself. “She realized shit and realized that it actually is me that is the problem, and—”

His phone rings.

His phone _fucking_ rings.

He reaches over to the nightstand to see who’s calling, trying to not get his hopes up. Her name pops up. It’s her, it’s her, it’s her.

He picks it up.

“Hello?” his voice cracks a little.

“Heyyyyyy,” her voice is sweet and goddamn, he missed it. But something’s off. “I-I-I got your text earlier, like not early like morning but you know… you know,” her voice is drifting and it’s a little hard to hear her—there’s some other sounds going on in the background. Voices, music. And she’s slurring.

Is she drunk?

“Sweetheart, are you drunk?” Sam’s excitement becomes suppressed with concern. “Where are you? Are you okay?”

“Sweetheart!” her voice is coming loud through his speaker when she says it. “Oh, oh… you called me sweetheart… fuck, I love it when you do that… I miss you, Sammy. FUUUCK.”

Despite her clinging to coherency in her speech and volume and his worry, he can’t deny the ache that he feels in his chest. _I miss you_.

“I know,” he says softly. “I need to know where you are, honey. You don’t sound like you.”

“Yes! Drunk, drunk no not drunk. Drunk, am not,” her voice is still so good to hear. “Buuuuut I just like, went for drinks with some of the girls and, Marissa is the one driving me home but she is TOTALLY talking to this guy at the bar! A guy! Can you believe it? And like, I know she’s still gonna drive me home but I want her to have fun! I haven’t had fun in a while… so she should! And Elena and Natey Nate aren’t here, and you… I saw you on my phone, and I remembered that you’re here! So, I don’t know where I’m going with this.”

Jesus, that was a lot. Drunk, yes. At a bar. Needing a ride home. He feels relief and pride for her responsibility despite her state. He chuckles a little at her for being so considerate for her friend, even in her drunkenness.

“Do you want me to give you a ride home?”

“No! Yes! Well, no. I didn’t—I didn’t call for that, silly goosey. But… um, I need one… yeah. Yeah! Take me home, Samuel Drake!”

Oh God. He begins to get out of bed as quickly as possible, finding some clothes to throw on. “Okay, okay, you stay right where you are,” he tells her. He feels like a dad. He probably won’t stop feeling like this for the rest of the night. “Which bar are you at?”

“Ummm, the Naughty Dog! That one!”

“I’ll be on my way right now, sweetheart.”

* * *

He doesn’t like the idea of hoisting a drunk person behind him on his motorcycle, so thankfully, he uses Nate’s truck that he had left at the house while they were gone.

He pulls up to the bar, going inside to find her. He finds her sitting at the actual bar, laughing with, or at the bartender. Her cadence is very, _very_ relaxed, in a big smile, which doesn’t disappear as he approaches closer to her. He calls out her name.

She turns around in the barstool. “SAM!” she yells. She looks towards the bartender, a younger man. “This is the Sam I was telling you about! Doesn’t he have nice eyes? Sam, let him look at your eyes!”

Oh, she’s _drunk_.

“Let’s get you home, sweetheart,” he tells her, putting his hand on her shoulder gently.

“Let me say bye to my friend!” her voice is _loud_ and she’s trying to hold herself up next to Sam, but falling onto him. He catches her. “Bye, bar man friend!”

The bartender gives a small smile, to both of them and nods at Sam. He’s glad that she was talking to _him_ , at least. Not some random that would try to get at her. He doesn’t even want to think about that—his blood would boil.

They manage to get out of the bar, and he helps her into the truck.

“This isn’t your bike,” she tells him as he helps her get in, seemingly too drunk to do it herself. Their faces are close and he smells the alcohol on her breath. She says it like he didn’t know.

“Nope,” he quips. “You wouldn’t have a fun time drunk as a skunk on my bike, would you?”

“Not drunk!” she protests, still drunkenly. “Not—not drunk.”

She’s buckled in now, and he closes the door and walks around to get into his side. “Not drunk, right.” He starts the car as they begin to drive to her place.

The drive to her apartment takes about twenty minutes, and they don’t say much. He doesn’t know what to say, really. She’s drunk in his passenger seat and a million thoughts are going through his head, one of them being why?

Why was it him? The first person she called.

They’re at a red light now and he glances over to her. She’s quiet, looking outside the window, arm perched up against the seat, resting her hand against her face.

“You know,” she slurs again, turning her head towards him. “This is like a fairytale.”

He chuckles. “What?”

“Yeah,” she giggles. “You’re like my knight in shining armor. And—and this is your horse. Except it’s not a horse… it’s not even a bike.”

He lets her have that. He isn’t opposed to the idea of him being her _knight in shining armor_. He’s nowhere near a knight. Or shining. But it’s a nice thought, a fairytale with a happily ever after. Just a thought.

“Yeah,” he says gently, unsure of what else to say. The light changes to green, and he makes that left turn onto her street.

“And I’m the princess!” she exclaims.

“Yes, yes you are,” he tells her again. At least that’s real.

He finds a parking spot within the complex, and he helps her get out. They make the way towards her apartment, struggling slightly at the stairs that lead up to her door.

It’s funny, he won’t deny that. He’s only seen her drunk a handful of times, but it’s been a while. It’s been a while for everything, but especially this. She’s such a funny drunk.

They get inside her apartment, and his chest aches with how much he’s missed the comfort of her home. The sweet scent she has from her thousands of candles, the warmth, its mellow lighting.

“Time for bed,” Sam states, feeling once like a father again.

She starts laughing, walking— _stumbling_ over to the couch, instead. “Umm, I want mac and cheese.”

Yep. A father.

“Sweetheart, it’s late and you need to get ready for bed,” he sighs. “And you can’t have dairy!”

“Y’know, y’know you’re a party pooper,” she tells him with a pointed finger, laying down on the couch.

He wishes he could go over there on the couch with her, laying down and snuggling up to her like they used to. With the TV on or the music playing, like they used to.

But that isn’t now. She’s drunk and he needs to take care of her and as much as he wishes she was his, she isn’t.

“You really want mac and cheese?” he raises his eyebrows, crossing his arms.

She nods, smiling and excited.

He gives her an exaggerated eyeroll, one that she giggles at. “Fine, fine.”

* * *

After making her mac and cheese (to which she gave a loud “YES!” to), he guides her to her bathroom to freshen up before she sleeps. He waits for her patiently, sitting on her bed, the memories of what occurred in this room flooding to him. His thoughts are interrupted by her coming out of her bathroom, back into her room.

“I’m clean,” she smiles proudly, but still apparently drunk. She sits on the edge of the bed with him, and then falls back. “And I’m sleepy.”

He looks down at her. She’s still in her shoes and her clothes that she wore to the bar. “You should probably get out of those clothes if you’re gonna sleep, then,” he says pointedly.

She smirks, looking up at him. Her hair’s splayed out all around her, framing her face so prettily. God. She’s so beautiful.

“Only if you’ll do it for me,” she says, trying her best to sound as flirtily as possible.

Her drunkenness does not stop Sam from feeling the flush in his face, though. He wouldn’t, he wouldn’t do anything. Not with her like this. But the image in his head of them together, feeling the soft skin under her shirt, holding her like he used to, lips pressed against her body…

No. He still wouldn’t.

“Kid, I’m serious,” he says, trying to supress the arousal he feels in his groin. He gets up from the bed, then kneels in front of her. He grabs her leg, taking off her shoe one by one. She sits up a little further, leaning back with her arms for support.

“You’re funny,” she remarks, her voice gentle. “You’re cute… and you’re funny.”

She gets up then, headed over to her closet. She takes her top off right then, _right in front of him_ , and he knows that it shouldn’t affect him, that he’s seen her naked plenty of times, that seeing her in her bra is nothing. But she isn’t his anymore, and he’s trying to remember that, and so he looks the other way.

He blames her lack of sobriety for being seemingly unfazed that she’s literally stripping right there, in front of him.

He turns once he hears her get into the bed, indicating that yes, she is in clothes. He freezes for a second, as he watches her get under his blankets. Her legs are bare and she’s wearing an oversized shirt— _his_ shirt.

Damn.

The corner of his mouth turns upward. “Comfy?”

She looks at him, sleepily. God, she’s so cute. “Yeah,” she nods.

“Okay, I’ll let you go to bed now,” he begins to walk towards her door. He wished so badly to stay with her, to just lay down next to her and hold her, to feel her warmth against his chest. But he can’t.

“Wait!” she protests. “You should—you should stay.”

Hand on the doorknob, he looks at her for a moment. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t stay.

“You know I shouldn’t, sweetheart,” he says, as if he was trying to remind her that he isn’t a part of her life the way he used to. But he takes his hand off the doorknob, and walks towards her anyway. He sits on the edge of the bed, looking down at her.

“Just until I fall asleep, please,” she says softly, yawning. She grabs his hand, his cold compared to hers. His chest aches. “Then you can go.”

_I don’t want to go, though. Isn’t that the problem?_

He nods. Gently, he affirms, “okay.”

She smiles at that, and he’s so confused. “Lay down next to me.” She pats the spot next to her, the side of the bed that used to be his whenever he’d spend the night.

It feels so natural, so normal. Him getting into bed with her, late at night, ready to fall asleep. As if the past few weeks didn’t happen, as if she didn’t cut him off and he didn’t speak to her for nearly a month and it took a very, very drunken call for all of this to come together and… and now Sam isn’t sure what to make of all of this.

Especially this. Especially when, once he’s taken off his shoes and he’s settled in the bed, she lifts his arm and nestles herself under it, immediately resting herself flush against his side. God, he’s so confused. He looks down at her, and she doesn’t look back. Her eyes are just closed.

“I called because, because I wanted you around,” she told him. Her voice is small and sad, compared to the things she’s been saying all night. “I’ve been wanting you around, since you had to go… I know, I know it’s been weird, and I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do…” she trails off, and he doesn’t know what to say.

“And I miss you,” she continues in hiccups, her voice cracking. “I really, really fucking miss you and it’s just so fucking shitty. It’s been so fucking shitty, Sam.” He feels her body tremble, and he realizes that she’s crying.

He doesn’t know what to do. His heart hurts, hurts so so much. He wanted to take the pain away, but he didn’t know how. He doesn’t even know how to take his pain. He feels a tear roll down the side of his face, and just he holds her tighter.

She hurt too. She felt it too. She’s here now, confessing everything he was feeling, both of them an emotional wreck.

“I know,” he whispers to her, lips pressing to the crown of her head. “I know, baby.” He strokes her back in an up and down motion. He didn’t know what to say. All he wanted was this, this moment. This moment where it was just them, and he got to hold her and smell her and comfort her. And even though they were both exhausted, and he’d have to leave the room when she’d fallen asleep, he’d take it. He’d take this moment a thousand times, if it meant it was with her.

He wanted to tell her he loved her. But he couldn’t. Not when she was like this. Not when she was vulnerable like this, not when the terms of their relationship were still undefined, unsure. She already trusted him at his side now after shunning him away. He didn’t have it in him to overstep it.

Before he could say anything else to her, though, she was fast asleep. And him, too, overtaken with the flood of emotions and tiredness, closed his eyes, and let the darkness take him.

They’d figure it out in the morning.

Hopefully.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did i procrastinate from two essays due this week to write this at 12am? yes. did i stay up until 3am earlier to get at least most of it written? yes. are there regrets? slightly, no.
> 
> feel free to leave your kudos and comments! i love words of affirmation–so it makes me happy to know that this story has impacted you guys in at least a little way. it warms my writer heart and affirms whatever it is im doing :)
> 
> it gets me going, knowing we all love our lil thief!! thanks again for reading
> 
> have a beautiful week xoxoxo


	3. just friends.

You wake up from what seemed to be a dreamless sleep, with a heaviness in your head and the blaring sun dead on your face. You flinch and shut your eyes back, trying to register your surroundings, and wondering what the hell happened last night.

Once those surroundings are registered, you freeze and opens your eyes back again.

You. Laying down. On Samuel fucking Drake’s chest.

You’re confused as hell, wondering what the hell happened last night for you to be back in bed with Samuel Drake, whom you had not spoken to since, well…

You don’t pull away from him, but instead look down at what you’re wearing: a big shirt, and… just underwear? Well. You’re relieved to know you haven’t lost yourself completely, and that Sam was actually fully clothed. But you still were uneasy, unsure. Why is he in your bed?

Staring straight at the wall, you attempt to trace back to the events that you could recall from the other night.

You were going out for drinks with some of your co-workers after a long week of research and work, you remembered that. You also remembered, prior to going out, the text you received from Sam. The text you would never tell anyone that you were secretly hoping for, the text that brought up all the emotions you had been trying to suppress those past few weeks. The text that fucked you up and made you feel waves and waves of shame and guilt.

Then, you remember getting absolutely hammered after that. Just really, really going at it. Your friends started flirting with guys around the large, smoky bar (save for the friend that had a little bit of sympathy to stay with you) while you moped about your ex to the bartender—well, not your ex. You keep trying to tell yourself that you were never with Sam like that.

Then you remember calling Sam, mainly because you were sad and drunk and you missed him. You really, really fucking missed him, and the little voice in your head told you not to do it, but who cares? You were already fucked up from the liquor, what’s the worst that could happen from this?

You said a load of crap that you had forgot now, and all of a sudden he’s at the bar to come pick you up. Thinking back to it, you hope that you didn’t say anything freakishly stupid or embarrassing.

You both end up going back to your place, you recall, you and Sam. He made you food, and somehow you were back in your warm bed, and he found his way in next to you.

That’s all you remembered, though. You pray to anything and everything above that you didn’t say anything (or do anything) that would expose you in ways that you didn’t want to show him. You really, really hoped that you didn’t make him uncomfortable, either. Or force him to pick you up, however that happened.

You’re cringing. This is why you don’t drink. Or fall in love with handsome, rugged men. Specifically, handsome, rugged men named Samuel Drake.

As if he notices your discomfort, Sam starts to stir out of his sleep. You detach yourself from his side, sitting up, making yourself dizzier. Your headache is absolutely _pounding,_ and you lean back to your bed frame, looking down at him.

He’s awake now, looking up at you. He cracks a small smile, his eyes slightly squinted from the sun shining through your window. “Hey,” he greets you, his voice indicating his tiredness.

You hate the feeling you gets from down in your core, the one that gets stirred up when he talks whenever he’s tired. You hate it, how cute he looks after he just wakes up—like a lazy little golden retriever. Frick, frick, frick.

You don’t really know what to say to him, but all you can come out with, “Was I okay last night?”

He pauses, opening his mouth for a little bit, then closing it. “I don’t know what you mean,” he tells you. “You were drunk, sweetheart,” he chuckles at you.

You scoff at yourself, looking to the side, away from him. “You didn’t have to stay, though,” you begin. “If we… you know… did stuff.” You don’t really know why it’s hard for you to say, as if you two haven’t fucked in that bed they were currently in a thousand times.

You look back at him, his expression looking almost offended. “I told you that you were drunk,” he says firmly, getting up from under the covers and out of the bed. “I’m not that kind of guy, no matter what you think of me. I thought that you, of all people, would know that.”

 _It’s too early for this,_ you think to yourself. _It’s too early to fight with him right now and my head hurts._

You don’t say anything to him—you don’t even know what to.

“Look,” he starts, taking in a deep breath. He looks down, and then back again to you. “I’ll go make us some breakfast, and we’ll talk. And then I’ll be on my way after that.” With that, he turns and heads outside of the bedroom, closing the door following him.

You sigh. _I don’t want you to be on your way._

You don’t know what you dislike more—you having to confront the issue of yourself seemingly, drunkenly, inviting him into your own home at night, or you having to send him away after doing the said action.

You miss him. You hope he missed you just as much. You hate what you did (cue Elena asking you why you had broke things off with Sam if you claim to have hated what you did). But you had to, had to protect yourself. There wasn’t another way.

You trust Sam, You do. With your life, you do. So many times, during their adventures, during their quests where you willingly put your life into his own hands. So many times when you two were intimate, you bore your soul to him. But this, a whole relationship, a practical confirmation that he could hurt you and it would be valid, was something else.

It scares you. Is it pride that is getting in the way? The pride to protect yourself, a pride that turned into fear? It it truly you not trusting Sam? Not trusting yourself? There are so many questions that you’re unsure of, questions you’re unsure of unraveling.

You want him still, though. You want the comfortable (although shocking in the moment) warmth that came from waking up by his side. You want the humor you feel stirring up when you see his handsome, yet tired face. He’s so handsome.

Your stomach rumbles. You get up from the bed, making your bed and smoothing out the covers. You pause before heading to your bedroom door, taking in your appearance. Your hair’s a little mussed from just waking up, dressed in that oversized shirt—is that Sam’s shirt?

The more and more you recollect from the night before, the more bewildered you are at yourself. You try to think back to what made you wear Sam’s shirt _in front of him._ You hope that he didn’t notice—and if he did, well, you don’t know.

You go to your kitchen after washing your face and brushing your teeth. Sam’s cooking breakfast, some eggs and frying some vegetables on a pan. It’s funny, the domesticity of it all. Your heart aches, when you realize that you miss this part. The part after he spends the night, where he wakes up first and makes them breakfast and hangs out for the rest of the day before he goes back to his job or to go work with his brother.

The routine that you two had, it went beyond just the nights the you and Sam spent together. He was in most of your days. Now he isn’t. He isn’t, because you let it happen that way. You wanted it this way, you keep telling yourself. You wanted it this way.

“Hey,” you say. It comes out quieter than you wanted. He looks back at you, and smiles.

“Didn’t realize you kept one of my shirts,” he chuckles, putting food on both of your plates. He heads over to your small dining table, setting the plates down. He sits down, and you do the same.

You feel the blush rising to your face, hoping Sam doesn’t notice. “Yeah,” you say sheepishly. “Not just one,” you confess.

He smiles at you. _Don’t do that, Sam,_ you think to yourself. _You’re making it worse on me._

“Sorry you had to wake up to me,” he apologizes to you. Although surprising as it was, it wasn’t all unpleasant. But you don’t tell him that. “I know it must’ve scared you, but for the record, you told me to stay until you fell asleep, and I guess I got a little tired.”

You feel guilty for questioning him if they had done anything sexual. With him being fully clothed, you didn’t fully jump to that conclusion, but you know there were things that you didn’t all remember, so you weren’t sure. “It’s, it’s fine, Sam,” you smile smally at him. “Sorry I made you stay,” you chuckles. “Drunk me isn’t the best me.”

“Don’t be sorry!” the adamance in his voice shocks you a little. “I mean, don’t be,” he repeats, this time a little more calmly. You tried to suppress your giggles at him—he’s so cute. “You didn’t make me do anything, you asked me. And, I would feel bad if I left you, y’know? You probably would have cried or something.”

“Did I cry?”

In the rare occurrences where you would get absolutely shit-faced, you would get emotional. And with Sam, and everything to do with it, you does not deny that you could have gotten emotional this time. He’s seen you drunk before, but not like _that_.

He pauses for a moment, as if he was hesitating to say something. Sometimes, you don’t know how to read him. And when you think you have, you don’t understand it.

“Yeah,” he said, and you swear you can hear some sort of finality within his statement. “Yeah, you did.”

You nod. “Hope it wasn’t anything too stupid.” You want to know, but then again, you don’t. You don’t want to know what you cried about to him, what part of your soul that you exposed to him. Because you have a feeling that you know what it is, and you’re afraid that you don’t like it.

“No,” he says softly. “No, it wasn’t stupid at all.” He looks at you, again with that unreadable expression. You wonder what he’s thinking about. You always do.

“Well, I’m sorry you had to stay and babysit me as a drunk,” you joke to hide your self-disdain. “I heard I can get pretty funny, though.”

That’s how it is for the rest of the morning. You and Sam don’t talk about anything deeper, and you feel as if you both don’t want to. The unspoken bond’s still there, at least on your end, painful as it is. But you two just eat, acting as if the last few weeks hadn’t happened, trying their damndest to not confront it. It’s a little awkward, but it works.

You love Sam. You knew it that night you told him you two couldn’t be doing what you two were doing anymore. You know it now, more than ever, and it’s taking all your headache-ridden self control to not tell him. He’s here now, without any expectation for anything else in return. You didn’t want to ruin that by telling him, or seem like you were manipulating that with your emotions.

So you don’t.

You two were still sitting your kitchen table when the clock was nearing noon. He looks down at his watch.

“I should probably get going,” he says, smiling sympathetically. “Thanks for having me.”

“Thanks for taking care of me.”

He smiles again, but it’s a different smile, with him looking down and chuckling.

“Anytime you need, sweetheart,” he remarks, his eyes back to you, gentle and connected to his smile.

* * *

It’s been a couple days since you last saw Sam at your apartment. You haven’t spoken to him since, still trying to process the events of your one drunken night, and the unanticipated morning after.

You took the day off from the office, but still went to the coffeehouse that was downtown to work. A little change in environment, to distract yourself from anything that has nothing to do with gold and sunken ships. You needed it, needed this space.

Or was it time and space to process, that you needed? You’ve distracted yourself way more than you had to, and this pattern can only get better, or worsen with another drunken call to Sam.

You’re staring blankly at your laptop, not bothering to read the PDF file on the screen sent to you. Your coffee’s getting colder. So much for a change in environment.

In times like these you would call Elena, ask for her big sister advice, but right now she’s in Spain, most likely re-living her and Nate’s honeymoon. So, you decide to not disturb her time unless she calls first, which she probably won’t.

This leaves you with trusting your heart. Your heart, the thing that put you in this tricky situation. The thing that you never knew to trust, never knew to listen to. But maybe, maybe if you did trust those feelings, they’d turn out for the better, instead of creating this mess of a situation with the man of your dreams.

You’re scared, you’re so scared. _Sam’s probably just as scared as I am, though,_ you think to yourself.

Maybe it was his unreadable expressions in the early morning from two days ago. His sleepy gaze. The soft charm in his smile, in his laugh seeing you in his shirt. Staying with you and cooking you breakfast.

Or backtracking a couple months prior to that, where he’d hold you a little longer after being with each other in bed, or his gentle forehead kisses before you said goodbye. Or maybe it was him holding your hand in the car, while you both drove around town, finding somewhere to get tacos.

 _He said so many things without words,_ you realize. _He felt it too._

You wanted Sam for a reason, a reason beyond the comfort and relief of sex that you both originally agreed you can give to each other. You loved him in the heat of passion too, in the breathless moments you both shared, as if there was nothing else in the world but you two.

Yet you also loved him at the grocery store, doing the most mundane things and creating puns out of random items. You loved him while he was searching for stir fry recipes on your iPad, eyes set in focus as you watched him, giggling. You loved him as he motivated you to reach your work deadlines. You loved him as he got frustrated at that one video game about the cowboys, and you loved him as he got really, really excited at the fact that one of the characters in said video game shared the last name Morgan.

Little, tiny things—and you loved him in it anyways.

Goddammit, you love Samuel Drake.

You avert your gaze from the screen of your laptop and to the window on your right, watching the street as everyone walking went about their day. Living their normal lives.

You want more than this. You want more than just working, wishing for what could have been, and regretting what you didn’t do. You want the life without regrets, with the things you did despite the fear.

You want to hold hands in the car and say “I love you” as many times as possible and cook more stir fry and get to go to Spain too and play video games all day and stay in bed until the afternoon and—

You just want to stop being a baby about it.

So you do exactly that—you stop.

You lift your phone from the table and look into your contacts. _Samuel Drake,_ one of the contacts say. You call.

“Hello?” his voice will never get old.

“Hey Sam,” you begin, finding yourself more nervous than you thought you’d be. “I was wondering if you’d want to come by my place again sometime?”

* * *

You’re nervous as hell before he comes over. You called him at that coffee shop, asking him to come by whenever. Then he chuckled like he always would, and told you that he was free tonight, followed by a “I’m always free for you, sweetheart.”

Now it’s seven in the evening and he should be here any minute now. You didn’t know what to do, you didn’t even tell him if you were going to be having dinner now. In any case, you didn’t make any, too taken away by the worrying you were not expecting to do.

You’re dressed in the clothes from today, some jeans and a loose fitted t-shirt. Why were you so damn nervous? He’s seen you so many ways, in so many states. This should be nothing.

But you never confessed your love for anyone before like this. It’s been a while since you’ve been this vulnerable, and it fucking scares you.

You hear a knock on the door and you immediately sit up from the couch, walking over to peek in the peephole before opening it. Sam’s there, clad in a very _nicely_ fitted grey shirt and his signature jeans. Your heart flutters, at the reminder of how devastatingly handsome he has always been.

“Hi,” he greets you, his smile soft and his cadence relaxed. If you could relive this moment a thousand times, you would. Any sort of moment with anyone else, is _nothing_ compared to one with him.

“Hi.”

He chuckles a little, an eyebrow raised. “You uh, mind if I come in?”

“Oh! Yeah, sorry, of course.” You step aside and invite him in, closing the door as he goes past.  

“Busy day?” he asks, already making his way towards the couch. He settles on it, relaxed as ever, and you muster up as much self-control as you can to not settle into his side next to him.

Instead, you stand right where you are, and smile and nod. “Something like that,” you shrug. “Lots of stuff coming up from the Titanic, and all that, but it’s all good today… uh, do you want anything to drink?” You gesture towards your kitchen.

You’re unsure of how to bring up what it is that you want to bring up, so you figure that averting it is the best thing right now.

He shrugs. “I’m okay, honestly,” he says, and in that moment it’s as if he notices your unease. “Are you?”

You laugh a little. “What? Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

“Lady, come and sit down.”

You chuckle again, sitting on the other side of the couch, turning your body so you can totally face him. “Sorry,” you begin. “Still trying to wind down from work stuff.” Lie.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You’re unsure of what else to say, but you’re thankful it doesn’t feel totally awkward yet. Sam’s eyes are still on you, as if waiting for you to say anything else. As if he knows what you’re already going to say.

“I wanted to thank you, actually, for being around that night I kinda got a little drunk,” you tell him, glancing down to the hands in your lap. Not a lie. That’s a good way to start it off, though. Because actually, you were grateful he did that, you were grateful that he had took himself from wherever he was at to be present for you.

“A little drunk?” he jokes with you, raising his eyebrows. “But really, it’s my pleasure, sweetheart. It wouldn’t sit well with my knowing that my girl was out there all out of body in some bar—well, not my girl. I didn’t mean that... y’know, any girl, just because you’re pretty and who knows what someone could have… yeah, yeah.”

He shifts in his seat, visibly aware of what he just said, looking away from you. It makes whatever feeling that your heart had around it even stronger. _My girl_.

You smile at him, inching a little closer to him on the couch, your legs perched up. “It’s, it’s okay, Sam,” you start.

He scoffs, getting up from the couch, standing up, pacing to the other side of the room. Oh shit. “No, no it’s not okay. I shouldn’t have said that, shouldn’t have called you that, I’m sorry.”

He’s looking straight at you, your heart clenching into itself as his gaze reads some sort of despair. You get up, too, and stand in front of him. Close to him, close enough to where you hope he doesn’t hear your heartbeat.

You don’t know what else to do, how else to communicate it. So, you grab his hand, looking up at him. His hazel eyes are glossed over, and he smells like pine.

“Sam,” you say his name, holding his hand tighter. “Sam, I love you.”

He steps back a little, and the shock he feels radiates. His hand doesn’t let go of yours, though, but his mouth gapes slightly and his brows twitch closer together almost prettily. Then, you see the tear roll from his eye and down his cheek.

“What?”

You laugh again, realizing how easy it is this time again now that it’s finally said. “I love you,” you declare again, and this time you’re crying. “I love you, I love you Sam, and I’m so sorry I was a little bitch to you when I noticed I felt something even close to it… and I don’t expect anything back from you, not even for you to say anything back, because it’s been weird and confusing as hell, and I’m sorry for all of that, but I—”

Before you have anything left to say, though, he closes the excruciating space between you both, enclosing your frame so tightly and his lips pressed to yours. You kiss him back, your lips moving with his and his body. His arms are strong and warm and enveloping you so well, as one of his hands moves up to the nape of your neck.

You aren’t sure which one of you had pulled away slightly, but now his forehead is resting against yours. It’s a mixture of bliss and intensity and tears, and it’s so, so great.

“I love you too,” he whispers back. “God, I love you so much.”

You pull your head back slightly, looking up from him but not removing your arms from him. “I’m sorry, for everything before this. I didn’t know what to do, and I was so scared…”

He shakes his head, his hands now on both sides of your face. He presses a firm kiss to your forehead. “No, baby. It’s okay. We both didn’t know. I’m here now, okay?”

_I’m here now._

There isn’t anything else left to say. You weren’t expecting this, but then again, you weren’t sure what else you were expecting. But you know you love Sam, goddammit, you love him so much.

Even now, as he peppers kisses up and down your neck before picking you up and carrying you to your bedroom. Even now, when you were both confused with everything less than forty minutes ago, but he still met you with grace and love and every other pure thing he was capable of delivering to you once you stopped bullshitting around.

There’s still gonna be a lot of things you’re unsure of, all the new fortunes and misfortunes within this journey. But it’s okay, it’s okay now. Sam’s here now, for the mornings and the nights and the moments of peace and confusion and exhilaration and more—beyond stopping at fear, at any limitation of any agreement. Beyond being just friends.

He’s here now, and goddammit, you love him.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW. that is a wrap for 'just friends'! thank you guys that have been subscribed and following up with me on this fic! i've loved writing it so much, i've loved continuing this journey with our reader gal and our lil thief. let me know what you think! should i write more of sam and this reader from this universe i kinda made for them?
> 
> also, feel free to follow me on tumblr! kavodrepeat.tumblr.com ! there we can chat about all things uncharted (or other things too) and you can stay up to date on my writing processes! just let me know you came from ao3! <3
> 
> thank you for all those that have commented and checked out and gave kudos. i love looking at them so so so much. it makes me so happy and it all motivates me so well. LOVE U GUYS.


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